The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 292

Chapter 292

Gemma’s POV

He’s the only one, besides a doctor who’s probably forgotten my face, who knows the secret my body is trying to keep. That knowledge creates a strange, thin bubble of privacy around us, and for a moment, I can actually breathe. I don’t have to perform.

“My stomach’s been off all evening,” I admit, the words slipping out more easily than they would to anyone else.

Mikhail gives me a look that’s all sharp, clinical assessment. “That’s not just nerves. Based on how you look right now, you’re not going to be able to hide this from Cassian for long.”

I press my lips together, a futile gesture against the truth. He’s right, and I know it. The constant, low–grade nausea, the exhaustion—it’s a ticking clock. “I know it’s not easy,” I mutter, more to the floor than to him.

Just then, I see Cassian cutting through the crowd, his focus a laser beam locked on us. His conversation with a business partner is clearly over.

“Gemma!”

His voice is a command. In one fluid, possessive motion, he takes me by the wrist and pulls me a step away from Mikhail,

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breaking the fragile bubble. The mask slams back into place.

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The sudden movement makes my head spin. I feel a fresh wave of nausea. For three years, I would have swallowed it down, plastered on a smile, and endured. He never cared about my discomfort before, always dismissing it as a ploy for attention. I learned to stop showing any weakness at all. But tonight, I just

can’t.

“I’m not feeling well,” I say, and I let the weariness show in my voice. It’s not a performance. “I need to go back. Now.”

The directness, the lack of pretense, seems to throw him. He just stares at me for a second, his anger momentarily derailed by my unvarnished honesty. Then, he acts. He puts his half–full goblet down on a nearby table with a decisive click. “Let’s go. I’m taking you home.”

A sliver of relief unwinds inside me. I just want to be horizontal in a dark, quiet room. We’re almost at the grand entrance, the cool night air a promise just beyond the doors, when a raw, shredded scream cuts through the polite hum of the party.

“Gemma! You took everything from me!”

I turn and see a blur of fury. It’s Zoey. Her face is twisted into something unrecognizable, all the polished model beauty erased by pure hatred. And in her hand, catching the light, is a small, wicked–looking fruit knife. She’s charging straight for me, the blade aimed right at my side.

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Time seems to slow, then lurch forward at a sickening speed.

Cassian moves on pure instinet. He doesn’t hesitate. He shoves me behind him, his own body becoming a shield between me and the knife.

At the same instant, Mikhail is just… there. He moves like a shadow, his foot connecting with Zoey’s wrist with a brutal, precise kick. The knife clatters to the marble floor, skittering away. In the next breath, he has her pinned, her arm twisted behind her back.

“Security!” His voice is a roar that cuts through the stunned silence.

The crowd, which had been a backdrop of chatter, suddenly converges, a ring of horrified faces. Zoey is thrashing against Mikhail’s hold, her eyes wild and fixed on me.

“Let me go! Gemma, you did this! You stole my shoot, you poisoned them against me! You took the spokesperson title! It was supposed to be mine!”

Her words are a torrent of venom. She’d been blacklisted everywhere after the Opal Group dropped her. A model since eighteen, she had no other skills, no other life. She wasn’t even invited tonight; she came because of the video Reyna sent, a digital spark to her gasoline–soaked rage. I was always her

target.

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Security swarms in, surrounding her, dragging her away from Mikhail’s grip. The immediate danger is over, but the shock hangs thick in the air.

Peter Hartley rushes over, his face ashen. “Ms. Marino! On behalf of the Hartley Group and the Opal Group, I offer our most profound apologies. This is an unforgivable breach of security. We will see this through to your complete satisfaction!”

The formal apology washes over me. I’m still processing the fact that a woman just tried to stab me. But before I can form a single, coherent word, Cassian’s voice cuts in, cold and hard as steel.

His arm is still around me, a protective barricade. He looks from Zoey, now being restrained by guards, to Peter.

“Satisfaction?” Cassian’s tone is icy, leaving no room for negotiation. “She brought a weapon to a public event with the intent to kill. This isn’t a matter for a private apology. This goes to the police.”

Reyna’s POV

Rhett drags me over just in time to see the security guards hauling a sobbing Zoey away.

A sharp pang of disappointment shoots through me. I sent her that video of Gemma on stage for a reason: I needed her rage to

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be my weapon. And what does the useless girl do? She doesn’t even manage to scratch Gemma!

All that drama for nothing.

Then Zoey, the idiot, spots me. “Reyna! You know it’s true! This was all Gemma’s plot! You know what she did!”

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